A Mirror's Wake
by MissDementia
Summary: Harley's never been too fond of replacements. Which is why she takes action when a certain someone arises.
1. Chapter 1

A Mirror's Wake

(Chapter 1)

Author's Note: Okay so this is my very first batman fanfiction and for that I ask you to have mercy! However, I enjoy any critical comments to better myself so feel free to review. Hope you like the very first chapter to my very first fic! ^^

Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain. ;)

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><p><em>Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives.<br>_-_Abu Bakr_

The murky waters tremble as the wind breathes upon the sea. Moon shines its incandescent light upon Earth's watery dress. As a purple blur dashes towards the terrible aqua, a chilling cackle reverberates against the eerie silence, ruffling the pale dainty feathers of the nearby pelicans. The guffaw of the descending form ceases immediately as the sound of water splashing is soon heard. The absence of sound seems to intensify, howbeit; a gasp can be heard in the distance, shattering the silence momentarily.

The sharply drawn breath is emitted by the woman that stands on the wooden pier above. Though the onyx sky holds no pillowy clouds upon its abundant dark blanket that covers the heavens, the oppressive feeling of melancholy can still be detected within the atmosphere.

'_There is still a chance! He can swim!'_ With this sole thought belaboring itself within her mind, the woman sprints towards the end of the extended wharf; her footsteps hammering away at the aged lumber underneath her.

As she reaches the conclusion of the dock, her azure eyes frantically search the aqua below. Growing anxious at the lengthy time, the young woman was preparing to dive in to the ominous waters. However, the moment that she is about to launch her thin frame upon Adam's ale, she catches a movement from the corner of her eye. Heart in her throat, she freezes as she recognizes the familiar sight of a triangular appendage. _No…_

The aquatic tresses of the sea tremble as the outline of a large marine creature can be made out through the dark fluid. A plethora of bubbles emerge to the surface, each tiny sphere popping as the monster's grey fin encircles something underneath. What seems like a struggle soon erupts from beneath, adding more to the frightened dame's distress as her eyes continue to linger upon the underwater battle.

In a matter of moments, the water's wrinkles undo themselves and all is settled. No more movement can be seen nor heard.

Another gust of wind runs its hand through the air, shifting the waters in a loving manner.

She knows not the moment that she falls on her knees, nor does she feel the remnants of a broken liquor bottle piercing into her patella, drawing small rivers of crimson to seep from her jester's outfit. Her eyes continue to stare at the aqua, not tearing her pupils off the site; not even when she feels two significantly strong hands clutch her thin shoulders and haul her up to stand, like a puppet. Yes, like a puppet.

That is precisely how she feels. A puppet that has just lost her master. A puppet that's strings shall no longer be manipulated or pulled. A puppet who longs to rot at the side of her master.

A poor puppet indeed.

Numb, her body feels. She hears the sound of the water lapping against the poles underneath her; calling to her.

It takes the poor woman a moment to realize that she is being pulled away from the dock. No! She was _his_ and _his_ alone, therefore she must go to _him_!

She dashes once more to the location; however she is disappointed as she feels the two same arms ensnare themselves against her waist, pulling her away from _his _watery grave.

She struggles this time. She kicks, she pinches, she slaps, she scratches, she punches and she spits all to no avail.

"Let me go!" She shrieks as her eyes dart once more to the location of his downfall. Couldn't he see that her angel needed her? She had promised herself to _him_! She would follow _him_ to hell if she had to. As long as _he_ was there, smiling that charming smile of _his_…

The perpetrator continues to pull her away, her vision of the paradise of flames licking about her body diminishing quickly as she is farther and farther away from the pier.

She manages to reach out a gloved hand, outstretching it as if by doing so, she would be able to grasp the sight before her. Of course, it was all in vain. Tears finally begin to well up in her eyes as she grasps the heartbreaking realization.

It is when the caped crusader manages to get her inside a police vehicle, glittering iron bracelets clinging on both her wrists, preventing her from escaping once more, that she voices out the obvious yet crucial revelation.

"He's gone," She whispers as inner pain surges through her cold veins. Blue and red lights bounce off in the distance, the automobile taking her away to a place that would no longer be the same. Then again, her world would never be the same.

The heavens unleash their tears as the car drives away.

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><p><em>Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to<em>

_-Sophocles_

Time.

In a place such as this, time can either be relevant or irrelevant to an individual. A being whose thoughts consist merely of the reverberating sounds of screams that echo throughout the dismal halls of Arkham may pay no heed to the silent tick tock of the aged clock nailed precisely six inches from the ceiling. On the other hand, a being who wishes to rebel against the authorities purposely may find the answer to all of his or her ideas within that same, simple ticking of the clock. The ticking of the timekeeping device, however, is rarely heard to sing by itself.

The shrieks and shouts that bounce off the dingy, gray walls of the mental institute always linger casually within the bowels of the gothic building. And though there is no doubt that these hellish shrills would peel back the skin of the sane, there is one cell that holds no sound at the moment.

At this instant, not a peep escapes from this room, the only occasional sound being the once in a blue moon drop of water that escapes the rusty faucet of the old sink. Though it would seem that the reason of this is because there is no inhabitant within the eerily quiet room, it is not so, for upon the nailed bed there lies a thin form. At first glance, it would appear the image of any normal incarcerated person, or as normal as an incarcerated person can be within an asylum.

This is also not true, for if one were to peer within the cell and narrow one's eyes to the dim light within, the wrists of the patient seem to hold thick bracelets of flesh.

_Like butter, she slides the blade across her wrists, letting out a maniacal laughter as she manages to dig deep within the skin. Then she hears the familiar footsteps of the cursed orderlies. They take away her crimson soaked 'friend' as she feels the divers of strange hands fret about her. She pays no heed of course. She had lost another one… _

The scar tissues partly hold the burden of this poor creature's attempt to escape this dreaded world.

But of course, there is more.

Focus more with me and one can now detect a head full of hair. It appears to be a woman, for her bosom is slightly elevated though she breathes. One can assume that if standing, her dark hair would reach her shoulders. Odd. One can notice an inch at the bottom of her hair contains a yellow tint. One can presume that the young lass was once a blonde haired woman. Now, however, her hair shines darkly. Ah, but the outer transformation of her physical appearance is the physical manifestation of what goes on within this woman's heart and mind. Her new contour, with few remains of her past self, is melancholic down to its very core.

In the past, it can be said that this creature once held her hair long and proud.

_A smile is etched upon the young woman's pallid face as she gazes at the large bundle of golden hair. As her eyes look over the abundant mass, she can detect a large chunk of flesh; drops of dark rubies dripping onto the soiled floor. Similar scarlet gems cascade against her neck, escaping from the fresh wound that resides on her scalp. In the blink of an eye, the woman manages to shove the mass of hair down her throat. Of course, the accumulation is too grand for her petite throat and her gullet is quickly obstructed. She is nearing unconsciousness when she hears_ them _again. Though the world around her goes dark, she knows that she has failed once more… _

In an event where said creature managed to pull a large clump of locks off her noggin and tried to suffocate herself by swallowing the large, bloody mass of hair, measures had to be taken. Therefore, shortening her hair.

The still form of the woman is similar to a statue. Her scarred hands lay still upon her stomach. Focusing closer, clear manacles can be seen over her marred wrists, preventing her from any more self harm. However, it seems quite far fetched that such a still and quiet girl would want to disrupt herself in any way.

She lies on her back empty cold, blue eyes gazing apathetically at the aged and cracking ceiling. Look closer my friend, for if we intensify our concentration, we can catch the sight of one, single tear glistening in the faint lighting. However, this could be merely an illusion of the mind, for it is gone in a matter of moments.

The stillness remains.

The chaos that had been heard before seems to fall in the background though it is obvious that the shouts in Arkham shall perhaps never cease, it is clear that the creature before us is not altered by an audible sound.

Perhaps it is within her mind where she continues the remainder of her empty life; living in her bearable memories that are the only thing that could in anyway console her. A small balm to the colossal wound.

Then abruptly, as if an electric shock runs through her body, the poor thing sits up. Her mostly chocolate hair does indeed reach her shoulders, managing to hide her eyes as she turns her gaze to the floor. Then, as if possessed, the young girl raises her head and lets out a long, bloodcurdling scream. The pitch of the shout reaches a disturbing high tone. It lasts all but five minutes.

Like a rag doll, she allows herself to fall back upon the mattress; returning herself to her former position. As she lies there, it is obvious that nothing else shall occur, for had it not been two years of the same routine?

It is time that we take our leave. We turn and walk away from the chilling hallways, careful not to gain attention from any of the demented patients that clamor the various rooms in the asylum. Half an hour later, we reach outside, not being able to resist the urge to gawk at the disturbing beings that were once considered human. The moon gleams beautifully in the darkness and almost manages to erase the images and sounds that we have witnessed. The building's shadow overlooks us as we continue on our path. The path of the sane. Reaching the rusted, iron gates, it is then that we hear it again. The loud, overpowering howl that manages to escape the grotesque structure that now lies behind us.

Then we are gone.

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><p><em>Oh what a tangled web I doth weave but stay awhile for there are secrets yet to be seen! <em>


	2. Chapter 2

A Mirror's Wake

(Chapter 2)

Author's Note: Okay so I wanted to thank all of the amazing people who reviewed! All of you are awesome! I shall repay you all with this chapter because you deserve that and much more! Once again, feel free to review this chapter and make as many critical comments as you like!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain.

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><p>"<em>The <em>_insane__ root__  
><em>_That takes the reason prisoner.__"_

_-William Shakespeare_

Within one of the rooms in the barbaric asylum that was Arkham, a young orderly stood by an old counter; his mind consisting merely of producing a nice cup of lubricating Joe to help him get rid of the drowsiness that he felt at the precise moment. One would think that he would be used to getting up at five in the morning after thirty six months of the same routine. Then again, he never was a morning person to begin with.

Frank Sunderland sighed as he pressed the power button on the small coffee machine that sat upon the withered counter top; his burly finger holding back the great strength he had so as not to crush the poor mechanism. As the glass container began to fill up with dark fluid, Frank turned around and leaned on the counter, letting out a long sigh. He eyed the compressed room as he continued to wait for his drink.

Sunderland could not help but smile as he scrutinized the silly floral designs that were upon the white walls in the room. It seemed highly out of place considering the location. Then again perhaps the choice of wallpaper was a way to soothe the nerves of the faculty that unfortunately received there daily bread by working in such premises. Though he thought it a bit foolish, Frank couldn't help but admit that it calmed him, if only by a few measures. Other than the herbaceous looking walls, the room itself was pretty simple with a few black sofas adorning the east side of the area. As he was looking closely at the verdant carpet, however, something caught Sunderland's eye.

Recognizing the littered object as an empty candy wrapper, the orderly frowned. The twenty six year old worker huffed as he made his way to the discarded plastic that rested on the middle of the room. In his few years here, the staff's lounge at Arkham had become his haven in a way; the only place in the whole damn building where the screams of the mentally unstable did not penetrate through the thick walls. Well, all but one…

As he was making his way to the small trash can in the corner of the lounge, the heavy metal door of the entrance opened; allowing a few shrieks to enter the peaceful room as well as causing various trinkets that were upon the coffee table near the entrance of the chamber to rattle. Despite himself, Frank could not help but let out a small yelp at the sudden intrusion of noise. The young orderly placed a hand on his fluttering heart as he turned his emerald eyes to the form that had entered the room.

The other man made eye contact with the younger worker and smirked as he shut the metal door with his immense, black boot; his bald head gleaming under the luminescent lights as he strode to Frank's side.

"Geez, Mike. Scared the piss outta me!" Frank finally let out as he ran a hand through his curly red hair.

"Heh heh, sorry Freckles," the man replied with not a tinge of sympathy in his tone of voice. "Why so jumpy anyways?"

The ginger haired orderly ignored him as he noticed his companion's scratched cheek. "Old Scarecrow slug ya, eh?

The smirk that had originally been on Mike's face disappeared as he brought up an index finger to his brown skin, rubbing gently on the newly opened wound and furrowing his brows as he eyed the red fluid on the tip of his finger. He shrugged as he wiped the soiled finger on the front of his khaki uniform shirt. A small stream of dark red liquid now resided just above his name tag.

"That fucker's thin as a toothpick but he can move like a damn cheetah. You didn't answer my question though, Freckles. What's got you all worked up?"

Frank inwardly winced at his much despised nickname. Ever since he had begun working at Arkham, Mike Anderson had baptized him 'Freckles' due to the mask of light brown sprinkles that were plastered on his oval-shaped face; as if he hadn't been teased enough in elementary school.

As they both heard the soft hum of the coffee machine indicating that it was finished brewing, Frank turned from his companion and reached for the upper cabinet, pulling out two white, porcelain mugs; avoiding his counterpart's dark gaze.

"I ain't know what you're talkin' about, Mikey."

"Aw c'mon, man. You've been working in this hellhole for three years now and you're telling me that it's normal that you jump from little ole me?" Mike retaliated.

Pouring the dark substance into both cups, Frank handed one of the mugs to the middle aged orderly. Neither made a move to sweeten the strong, bitter substance; both preferring their coffee sharp. Frank rolled his green eyes as he caught sight of the other man's raised eyebrow.

"I was distracted."

"Uh-uh! Ya can't fool me, Freckles. See," Mike said as he tapped his left temple with both his index and middle finger, "I gots me a sixth sense."

"You sure the sun ain't scrambled that bald head of yours instead, Houdini?" Frank chuckled.

"Say what ya want but you know exactly what I mean. C'mon, tell Uncle Mike what's got your panties in a bunch."

Frank shrugged. "Just not enough sleep, I guess."

The African American employee closed his mahogany eyes as he nodded his head. "Mmhmm. Just as I suspected, Freckles."

At this, Sunderland raised an inquisitive red brow. "What?"

Anderson opened his eyes and gazed at his co-worker and finally said, "Bullshit."

"Gosh, Mikey will you drop it already. You sound like, Mary Rose, for God's sake." Actually, to be fair to his wife, the latter statement was a great exaggeration. At least his Rosie knew when to let him be.

Mike let out a husky chortle. "Well I just saw the schedule before I came in here and I wanted to make sure that you ain't frettin' over a certain brunet."

At this, despite himself, Frank felt himself tense up. Mike, ever the one to notice, did not hesitate to let out a roar of laughter, his head falling back as his contour vibrated through his wrinkled uniform. Frank felt his face flush with embarrassment and cursed under his breath at his shame. Hearing it out of the older man's mouth, it did sound a bit lame. Hell, lame was a major understatement. Sunderland could lift over two hundred pounds, and he was agonized over having to take charge of a slim, young woman. Good thing his pop wasn't alive to hear that.

Frank narrowed his eyes as he glared at his giddily, convulsing friend. It took all of his self control not to chuck the cup of scalding coffee that he held in his hand at the older man's smug face. As if he could visualize the threatening images that were beginning to form in Frank's head, Mike managed to control his laughter and diminished it instead to small snickers.

Annoyed, Frank said, "You done yet or should I call one of the doctors here?"

Wiping a few tears from his brown eyes, Mike managed to answer, "Aw man. Hadn't laugh this hard in awhile. You seriously scared of that gal, Freckles?"

Feeling a bit put out, Frank felt obliged to defend himself. Ever since he had been a young boy, he always felt compelled to explain himself to people, regardless of the consequences. Perhaps it had something to do with that OCD crap he had heard one of the loony doctors talk about one time. Either way, the young orderly fell into the routine of his habits.

"Ya heard about all the crazy stuff her and that sick clown used ta do together."

At this, Anderson raised an eyebrow. "You've said it yourself, Freckles. 'Used to' Joker's gone. Been two years since that whole 'incident'.

Sunderland took a tentative sip of his coffee, not wincing as the liquid burned the tip of his tongue. "I know, Mike. But the whole ordeal really left Harley bonkers. Really knocked her off that already unstable rocker, if you know what I mean. Forty two suicide attempts? That's got to be a fuckin' record!"

Chugging his drink as if it would be his last, Mike replied, "So why's that got you frightened, Princess? As far as it shows, she's wanting to out herself. Not you."

Frank shook his head as his gaze fell on the matted ground. "I know, but I just can't help the feeling that one of these days she's just gonna completely snap. Lose the few marbles that her little pretty head of hers holds. When that happens, who knows what crazy shit she'll pull outta her sleeve."

Placing his empty cup in the lounge's sink, Mike stayed silent. The radiant light from the room's ceiling seemed to increase the depth of the wrinkles on his dark skin. Then, with a serious look upon his aged face, he muttered, "We'll see."

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><p>"<em>There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other.<em>_"_

_-__Douglas H. Everett _

Dreams.

Dreams are the embodiment of that which we desire unconsciously the most. Some inhabitants of this abundant, cruel world, however, believe dreams to be the escape route from reality; the fabricated road that allows us to roam freely within the chambers of our minds. Howbeit, dreams shall occur regardless of what we do in our consciousness. It is also useless to try to control these beautiful figments of our imagination for our dreams are like the liberated deer that amble upon the lush meadow gaily; both wild and exotic down to their very core. It is in this idealistic state that we find our favorite patient at Arkham.

Harley lies on her stomach, her pallid face pressed up against a cushioned pillow. Her eyes flutter every so often but she never truly opens her lids to reveal those melancholic, sapphire gems. Her pink lips, like a pale rose that has been deprived of the waters of life, are parted slightly as her mind produces idyllic images that somewhat calm her grieving heart. One single, dark strand of hair falls to her temple as she shifts from her side.

_He stands before her. His lanky and yet exquisite body is adorned with his usual expensive suit. The hue of the clothing resembles the exact __violaceous tone that the Sun partly holds when she reaches her time of departure. His intoxicating scent, that of an alluring and enticing cologne that clings to his whole persona, caresses her nostrils. _

"_Puddin'!" She shouts as she runs to her clown prince. A contented sigh escapes her lips as she manages to encircle her thin arms around his lean frame. His divine, violet eyes widen at the sight of her, but he wraps his arms around her as well; keeping his grip upon her light, greatly contradicting her grasp. She feels a light shiver run down her spine at the sensation that his hold brings; her heart beat hammering at the nearness of him. _

_She wishes to press her face against his chest, but she cannot risk peeling her eyes from him, thinking that if she did so, he would disappear into thin air. She longs to tell him of how she knew that he was never gone. She longs to tell him how she knew everyone had been ignorant to think him, the mighty embodiment of perfection and chaos, was deceased and how he would never cease to exist. Yet, as she is about to voice these notions, the young harlequin notes that his lips, his ravishing, splendidly crimson lips, begin to move. _

_She halts her action and waits for the sound of his sublime voice to reach her eager ears. However, as his scarlet lips, that of the same shade of a blossomed red rose, move, no sound is audible. Harley's pale blue eyes gaze frantically at his lips. She reaches a trembling hand to his blanched throat and places it there, believing that he is merely jesting with her. Howbeit, as she palms his throat, she feels the vibration that is expected from a person who is speaking. _

_Harley notices a single drop of saliva cascade down his chin and realizes that he is shouting, or at least trying to for no audible sound is yet to be heard. _

_Then, as if the lack of hearing his wonderful voice was not enough torture for her, the resounding noise of a tide can be heard far in the distance. She feels his body tense up, and as she continues to look at him, a gush of water escapes his handsome mouth. Gargles form in his throat and he unleashes, like an uncontrollable hose, a vibrant, continuous rush of water; completely drenching the distressed woman. _

_In lieu of pushing him away, she presses her face to the lapels of his now soaked coat; his person now reeking of the disturbing scent of sea water. Not knowing whether the streams on her cheeks are her tears or the result from the spray of water, she reaches a single hand to grasp his emerald locks. Instead of the soft, well groomed hair that always lingers on the top of his head, seaweed is entangled on her thin fingers. _

_Petrified, she wishes to see his eyes again, but although the silhouette of the earlier form is the same, she is instead met with the gaze of a bronze, statue; kelp tarnishing the ends of the now coppery coat._

_Frozen in terror, she becomes aware of the harsh grip of the statue's arms tightening around her. She feels her breath begin to hitch as the grapple becomes unbelievably tight. Harley tries to pull away but it is all to no avail. _

She screams_. _


	3. Chapter 3

A Mirror's Wake

(Chapter 3)

Author's Note: Once again, thank you so much for the kind reviews! I truly appreciate all your feedback and remember to feel free to review this chapter and make as many critical comments as you like!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain.

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><p><em>I have my own little world, but it's okay, they know me here. <em>

_-Author Unknown_

Harley arose suddenly from her deep, disrupting slumber; remnants from her disturbing dream lingered casually within her mind momentarily until the hallucination became worn and lost. Never to be remembered in the conscious state again.

Harley's pale skin was eerily prominent under the radiant lights that had been turned on within the miniscule cell; the spidery blue veins at the side of her temple ever noticeable to any spectator willing to pay her any heed. The broken woman narrowed her icy, azure eyes at the bright lighting and detected the reason to her rude awakening.

About one foot away from her, an orderly stood. His pink, blotchy face was set on a stoic expression and yet fear, like a snared guppy, swam within the olive of his eyes. His chapped lips quivered ever so slightly. The woman merely turned her empty gaze to the leaking faucet and waited for the usual routine to commence.

His face seemed unfamiliar to her and yet the former psychiatrist was not surprised at this distinguishable fact. It was truly a rare gem when Arkham's goons chaperoned her for more than a month. It seemed that the lack of noise from her managed to disturb them far more than any of her previous actions. Nevertheless, she waited for him to steady his nerves.

She heard him take a quaking breath. Howbeit she did not start when the sound of the familiar rustling of thick fabric could be heard; her straight jacket.

"All right," the poor imbecile gulped, "you know the drill."

Without protest, Harley arose from her trembling bed; the creaking of the rusty springs beneath the mattress breaking the silence between them for a few pesky moments. She then proceeded to extend her pallid, lanky arms before her, iron handcuffs gleaming ever so slightly.

"Don't do anything stupid, all right? I got me a taser and I ain't gonna hesitate to use it against you."

Harley raised a perfectly arched, brown eyebrow but said nothing. _Pff what a rook eh, Harls?_

At the sound of the beautiful and yet scalding voice, the brunet woman winced. The orderly, who had already removed her handcuffs and was now fitting her within the buckled, beige straightjacket, mumbled a "sorry" as he began to tie up the locks. Surprisingly, the device was not as tight as the other orderlies were accustomed to tying it. Pity really since Harley was quite fond of the pressure that she had already grown used to.

The orderly, which Harley identified as Frank due to the name tag, placed a steely grip upon her shoulder and yet softly pushed her outside of the cell. With eyes that held emptiness, she scrutinized his form as he moved about within her cage.

Frank bent his heavy form as he began searching beneath the mattress for anything deemed "dangerous" for her. Not finding anything, the red haired employee arose and began lifting the yellow, dingy covers as well searching beneath the hard pillows. Nothing.

While he continued his search, Harley caught sight of a small spider crawling on the ground of her vault. The harlequin briefly wondered what a few bites from the seemingly insignificant creature before her could do to her health.

Frank, who had finally finished the most important part from his job, made his way to the opening of the cell, unknowingly stepping on the poor insect that had momentarily taken a rest from his journey. A look of pure envy was placed above the mask of aloofness upon Harley, however it was quickly disposed of.

Locking the cell and making his way to the woman, Frank placed his huge hand upon Harley's thin shoulder once more and led her to their destination. Throughout the march, Harley stayed put and was obedient.

Tuesday. They were headed to the showers today. Tuesdays and Thursdays equaled shower day since the grimy hospital was going through a few budget cuts. Not that it mattered to her anyway.

The unison of their footsteps mixed with the rowdy noise of the other patients within the facility. Harley caught the sight of a clock against one of Arkham's dingy walls. Eight thirty a.m. _Early bird catches the worm, Harley Baby!_

The brown haired woman shuddered and slightly shook her head to silence the enchanting voice. As they arrived to a halt, a trembling Frank pulled out a brass key and unlocked the black door that held in white bold letters, "Ladies'Showers." The 'W' almost completely faded away.

The seemingly mute woman suddenly felt her straight jacket begin to loosen but she remained like a statue. Frank sighed irritably at the lack of cooperation from her part but said nothing and managed to get her out of her restraints.

"Go on. Twenty minutes," he grunted as he opened the door for her to enter. Once again the orderly gave her a slight push and the door uttered a barely audible thud as it shut itself behind her. She stood within the white opaque room and merely gazed in front of her. Though it seemed that her gaze had fallen on the sinks that lined up one of the tiled walls, it in fact was fixed upon a tiny speck of old blood. One only wondered how it was possible that this silent creature could view the miniscule dot, for any other human being would find it impossible to scrutinize the speck from eight feet away.

"Move it, Clown!" A harsh voice entered her train of thought.

Harley did not move and merely continued her staring contest with the wall. A heavy figure came into her line of vision. The tanned butch of a woman, whose shoulder width could have put any veteran soldier to shame, grinded her teeth as she recognized the lack of action of the patient.

"We gonna do this the easy way or the hard way, Clown? Gettin' kinda tired of kickin you around just to get you under the water. Though I gotta say it's kinda refreshing sometimes." The asylum employee chortled and revealed a row of disarrayed, rotten teeth. Still Harley said nothing.

As the heavy form raised a fist to the smaller woman, a dainty hand grasped the dark fist. Vibrant, fury-filled jade eyes glared at the female orderly. Though sneering, the employee backed off, muttering curses as she made her way to the entrance. Though she did not leave for obvious reasons, the butch of a woman did not pay the two prisoners any heed.

"C'mon, Harl" the naturally seductive voice let out as the fiery headed woman entangled her arm with the solemn girl. Like a child, Harley was pulled to the shower stalls. Pausing momentarily in front of a bench, Ivy did not hesitate to peel off the much hated hospital uniform off Harley as well as her own persona.

Discarding their undergarments too, Ivy led Harley under the monstrous faucet. A quick look of remorse placed itself on Ivy's hauntingly beautiful face but it was soon gone as her light emerald hand turned the lever to 'ON'. The droplets of cold water slapped both women harshly and in a few seconds the aqua began to warm up. In a matter of minutes the water was warm enough to the point that mist had now embraced the air around them.

Harley dropped her head and the beads of water began to drip from her face, mimicking a face shedding tears. Pamela stretched her hand to the depression that lay embodied next to the hissing faucet, grasping a small bottle. After squeezing a reasonable amount on her soft hands, Ivy then proceeded to smear the stale scented liquid upon her friend's noggin after she had done her own. A nice lather began to form and the embodiment of Mother Nature pursed her lips as she debated something within her intriguing and alluring mind.

"Harley," Ivy began as she continued to massage her friend's scalp. "Something came up recently." Ivy paused as she gently shifted the harlequin's head beneath the running waters. The simulated rain freed the mostly onyx locks from the prison of glittering bubbles.

Now holding a white, soapy sponge, Ivy began to scrub Harley's body vigorously; a trail of bubbles hiding various scars on the pale skin.

"I have to leave tonight."

Million droplets of water are the only source of sound that is audible.

"Maybe you should come with me. Forget about this terrible place. Forget about…him."

Stubborn is the child for no response does she make. Under the water, suds cascade toward the ground. The scars are once more visible. Pamela, naked and vulnerable, nods to herself as she places her gaze to the shower's rusty lever. In a daze, Ivy finishes both her and her friend's bath and adjusts their former attire once more.

They now stand in front of the sink as Isley, former botanist, brushes Harley's teeth with care and precision. Finished, Ivy glances at her companion and hesitantly opens her mouth, as if to say something. Within the Flower Queen's vast and intriguing mind, the eco-terrorist conjures up various ways of telling her friend that she cares about her. Ways of informing her that she wanted to help her heal, no matter what it would take. Ways of revealing to her that she longed for the old harlequin that had become her one and only friend that guided her through the tough times and managed to get a smile out of her own cold and barren heart.

Instead, all that escapes Ivy's luscious lips is a weak, "Take care," as Harley is taken away by the woman employee from before.

Never again.

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><p>"<em>A story is told as much by silence as by speech."<em>

_-Susan Griffin  
><em>

Silence.

The absence of sound falls into two usual categories. Silence can be the pleasant hammock in which two individuals can dwindle together and not care of the total lack of noise. Both companions being in agreeable terms as Silence casually lingers within the air that they breathe. Silence, however, can also be the strange net that captures people within its awkward knots; the comrades not knowing how to deal with the heavy, oppressive foreign air that tightens their throats.

For Doctor Hector Leumont and Harley Quinn, the latter statement was completely suiting. The new intern frowned as he tapped his blunted pencil against his 4in x 6in memo pad; one dark, deep dot indented the left side of the empty page that he was currently on. This was his eight session with the woman before him. Eight session and Not. One. Word.

Dr. Leumont considered himself a very patient man. Twelve years of the continuation of his education had seemingly eased away his impatient nature. He had not even minded when his Mandy had told him that she needed time to think about their relationship when he had proposed to her.

For this precise reason, the mere thought of believing that he, Dr. Hector Leumont, was impatient was a complete laugh. The forty-two year old clenched his teeth as he tightened his grip upon the pencil. The roaring silence allowed the dainty pencil to resonate the sound of its splintering wood. Perhaps the silent, handsome woman before him was doing it on purpose?

Hector immediately mentally scratched the idea away as he darted his chocolate eyes to the necklace of flesh that the broken woman wore so nonchalantly. No. Not on purpose for she had no purpose. No purpose in life.

The shock at the death of her 'lover' was enough to break her. From what he had learned, Harley herself had worked here at the asylum. Howbeit, the clever clown seduced her with his charming ways. Leumont raised a golden eyebrow as another thought entered his head. What if he himself charmed the former jester girl? He had been identified as a ladies man before and he was not unfamiliar with the action of wooing a female that he was attracted to. Thank goodness for the inherited looks that he received from his grandfather. Once again, Hector eyed the unique specimen before him.

Oh yes, she was beautiful. Though there was no doubt to him that her body was probably littered with either small, insignificant to great and awe inspiring scars, she was lovely. Leumont only half wished that he had been in Gotham when the comical duo was in action. Only half of him, mind you. Some of the tales that a few of the orderlies told were enough to make him cringe both internally and externally.

Leumont darted his eyes to Harley once more, and pouted. No. She would not accept him. She had already been branded like a mule to that dead criminal. His romantic tactics would have to stay within his persona. He did not wish to extinguish what little chance he had to fixing her. But it was so frustrating! Even Strangling Stan from Star City had shown more potential. Oh well. A transfer was a transfer.

Leumont glanced at his empty notebook and raised an inquisitive brow as another idea crossed his mind. With his blunted and splintered pencil, in an unbelievable neat handwriting, the doctor wrote, _"If roused, would patient react?"_

Leumont bit his lower lip. There is no doubt that Miss Quinn's "Love" held the obvious attachments of near obsession with her beloved clown prince. Perhaps insulting her deceased lover would get something out of her?

It could work.

As soon as he was about to make up his mind as to what to say, the blasted school bell looking alarm signaling the end of their session rang. Leumont cursed the mechanism within his mind, however he placed a smile on his face as he glanced up at the opening door where Frank stood.

"Give ya any trouble, Doctor?"

The doctor shook his head as he smirked.

"Quiet as a mouse, Frank." At this, the orderly chuckled. The heavy employee raised Harley by the shoulder, much more gentle than the other orderlies, Leumont noted. Frank lightly pushed Harley out first, and he was about to exit himself until the doctor called him.

"Yeah, Doc?"

Leumont, rubbing his chin, replied, "Take Miss Quinn to the Rec room today."

Frank's eyes widened. The burly man glanced out the door then at the doctor. "You sure, Doc? I mean, Miss Quinn hasn't been there in ages. Previous doctors thought it wouldn't do her no good. You know…since she usually tries to…"

The doctor waved his words off with his hand. "This is part of her new treatment. If we continue to segregate her from the crowd, then she'll no doubt continue to keep to herself. I only ask that you keep a good eye on her due to her condition. That won't be a problem, eh Frank?"

Frank's forehead wrinkled as he shook his head. "No Doc. Of course not."

"Good."


	4. Chapter 4

A Mirror's Wake

(Chapter 4)

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! Once again, thank you so much for the kind reviews! I truly appreciate all your feedback and remember to feel free to review this chapter and make as many critical comments as you like!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain.

* * *

><p>"<em>There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be..."<em>  
><em>-<em>_John Lennon_

Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 is crudely emitted from a dreadfully old radio that is very well acquainted upon the dusty table that is situated next to the room's grayish wall. The well constructed piece, that in the past has awed thousands and thousands of music spectators, only succeeds now in stirring fear upon the guards that stand on either side of the steel entrance door. Frequencies of static envelop every note and it strangely suits the demented, ominous room.

On a worn, scratched and beaten mahogany sofa in the middle of the room, our favorite patient in Arkham dwindles. She is motionless at the moment; not paying any heed to the other patient that is currently licking the tiled floor beside her dainty feet. Her dark hair, contrasting greatly with her ashen, lifeless cheeks, is still somewhat damp. The beautiful, doll-like woman merely stares ahead; though the elevated television set is not on.

As the disturbing music ends, the two asylum employees let out a relieved breath. However, just like before, the same song repeats. It has been like this for quite some time.

A quick click of the door, that causes one of the guards to jump, signals the arrival of another patient. This newcomer's embedded identification indicates that he is known at Arkham as patient 258B. Among the staff, he is also very well known. Randy, 258B's escort, has a stern frown on his olive toned skin.

"What he do now, Ran Dan?" one of the guards asks as he pulls the mentally ill individual out of Randy's tight and no doubt ruthless grasp.

"This asshole thought it would be funny to take a bite outta nurse Lee." Randy's face reddens in anger.

A husky chuckle is let out by the same guard. "How's the skirt?"

Randy lets out air. "She's fine. Luckily he didn't break the skin. I'm more worried about the hell that Doctor Johnson is going to give me once Lee files a report. I turn my back one lousy second and this idiot goes and does something like that. Unfucking believable."

"Unbelievable? This is an asylum for Chrissakes. Whatd'ya think was gonna happen?"

Randy shrugs his shoulders as he states, "All I know is that if I get one more referral for that buffoon's actions, I'm gonna put some good use to that metal bat I gave my nephew last Christmas."

"He he, tell me about it. Go to your break, son. We'll take care of him."

"Thanks Sam and Jerry. See ya in a couple of minutes." The door makes an audible _thud_ as the orderly takes his leave.

The dark haired man named Sam, who had been the one conversing with Randy, crudely pushes 258B roughly towards the sofa, situating him near our Harley.

"There," Sam says as he begins placing a glittering pair of silvery handcuffs on 258B's wrists. "You ain't causing anymore trouble."

If we concentrate our gaze towards the culpable patient's wrist, we can see that his pallid skin has begun to redden. It is times such as these that we feel a twinge of pity towards the prisoners of Arkham. But it is only a penny sized piece of sympathy, because we must remember, they are not human.

Jerry, slimmer and taller than Sam, remains situated on his spot and similar to a hawk that eyes his prey, glares at the three patients that currently inhabit the room.

Sam makes his way back to his territory near Jerry, only to momentarily stop and place a hand on top of his much extended belly.

"Damn. I knew I shouldn't have had the leftover ribs from last night. Gonna have to head on to the John. Cover for me."

"Yeah yeah, just make sure you don't let the door hit ya' on the ass on your way out."

"Hey, a-fuck you, man. He he. Be back in a few."

"Yeah, few hours if you ask me," Jerry chuckles. However, the joke is unheard by his companion for Sam has already left. Jerry is alone.

Once more Glenn Gould plays Chopin's famous notes and once more a shudder runs down Jerry's spine. To hide his moment of weakness, Jerry forces out a cough.

An echo of a cough can be heard, howbeit this time it does not belong to Jerry. The guard snorts and crosses his arms. To the asylum's employee's dismay, a snort is repeated and 258B can be seen crossing his arms as well. Unconsciously, Jerry growls and once more the noise that he creates is mimicked.

Frustrated, Jerry walks over to the infuriating, demented patient and forms a fist. Jerry is now face to face with a psychologically disturbed human being.

"Stop it," Jerry whispers. His two seemingly insignificant words carry tremendous promises of pain if the listener, who's the words are directed towards, disobeys.

258B sticks his practically white tongue (a side effect of the much medication he has consumed) and blows a raspberry directly at Jerry's face. Droplets of reeking spittle reach Jerry's scowl.

"That's it! Come here ya' good for nothing!" As Jerry reaches for 258B's pencil thin neck, the infamous patient lunges at the employee and manages to sink his wretched teeth on Jerry's tanned neck.

"Augh!" Jerry lets out as his brain triggers the painful sensation. "Get off of me you sick fuck!"

Stronger than the imprisoned man, Jerry manages to remain standing. A foolish sight indeed, but Harley and Mr. Licker remain unfazed. The guard, beginning to feel 258B's incisors begin to sink upon his carotid artery, begins a hard assault on the patient.

His hairy fists wisely land on the patient's yellow haired head and 258B is harshly slammed on the wall that is near the radio. 258B seemingly falls unconscious.

Taking large gulps of air, Jerry turns around and bends forward in an attempt to control his franticly beating heart. As an unfortunate result, Jerry is taken by surprise as 258B's chained hands encircle themselves around Jerry's throat. _Asphyxiation._ The frantic employee begins panicking as his mind begins to register the lack of oxygen.

Eager for freedom once more, Jerry runs across the room and begins reaching behind him in order to smack away his assailant. In one of his failed attempts, Jerry manages to turn on the levitated television set. However, his mind barely focuses on the turned on mechanism:

"_He calls himself 'The Joker', but just who really is the man beneath the wrinkled suit and mussed green hair? As residents of Gotham City know the former Clown Prince of Crime met his unfortunate demise in an encounter with non other than the Batman two years ago when witnesses caught sight of the now deceased criminal fall beneath a dock and lose his life in what appeared to be a fatal shark attack that ended his reign of terror over Gotham._

_However, it appears that an obsessed fanatic has now claimed the title 'The Joker' as his own for new footage sent directly to Gotham City Police Department indicates that the past bank robberies that have encircled the city these past two weeks were planned by this new clown successor. _

_Though unique scars adorn his white painted face, much is still to learn about this new, dangerous and mysterious criminal. Commissioner Gordon wished not to comment on the matter. Just what awaits Gotham City with this new fraudulent entertainer? Only time will tell. _

_In further news…"_

* * *

><p>"<em>Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."<em>

_-William Congreve__  
><em>

Rage.

Rage is the wonderfully terrifying silk veil of crimson that bleeds into our sight when viciously provoked. This pure animalistic instinct that matches the feelings of a mother lion who has just lost her treasured cub to her mate's rival, destroys any seed of rational thought that may otherwise linger within our perplexing and complex mentality. Rage cruelly delivers tremors within our body and soul that inhibits us to create a more analytical pathway for our dilemmas. Though it seems more trouble than it is worth, it is with rage where our full capabilities lie.

And so it begins.

Harley's fingers begin to twitch slightly at first, matching a newborn's unsteady digits. However, unlike a virtuous infant, there are disturbing loud pops emanating from her rusty joints, audible despite the still ongoing turmoil within the room. Finally, her white spidery hands become fists and her lithe body begins to quake at an alarming rate. Her breath comes out in rasps and it is then when the final strand of restraint is cut.

With immense agility, the former psychiatrist stands erect from the worn sofa and seizes the patient beneath her. A single drop of soiled saliva escapes the mouth of the former licking patient and it is painfully obvious to any observer that his deranged mind will not realize his inevitable doom in time.

Her cruel hand clutches his pencil thin throat and the pressure in her grasp is increased in mere seconds. Gasping for breath, the licker's face turns into a shade of red; however it is nowhere near the shade of rouge that has consumed Harley's range of vision.

It is hard to perceive the distinct transformation that the former stoic girl has undergone.

She shows no hesitation as her cerulean eyes, finally alive and ablaze, glare at the soon to be dead patient. In seconds, the patient is dead. Some might think it a pity that he shall not be remembered.

Showing absolutely no distress, Harley discards the now lifeless corpse onto the ground. Coincidentally, she manages to slam him down onto his former spot in which once his lively tongue had conquered.

Despite this, her anger is far from being fed.

Though for two years the melancholic jester girl went without mobility, her narrow body still ensnares the unbelievable strength that her friend had formerly implanted within her. It is with this tremendous strength that she thrives, brandishing it like a robust sword.

Remorseless is she as she somewhat gently grasps the back of both 258B and Jerry's heads. She has ceased the violent ruckus between the two and mockingly caresses their crowns.

A breath we take.

Now, going for the kill, Harley bashes their fat noggins repeatedly against the stale, grey wall. Carmen blushes beautifully upon the mundane bulwark.

It is not known by her how much time lapses after the cruel massacres. Harley's rage consumes her greatly and she pays no heed to the continuous shrieks that are now heard around her. She does not realize when she releases the crushed, bloodied skulls. Though her heart has somewhat calmed as her parasympathetic system kicks in, her gaze lifts up and her blazing sapphire gems glare at the television screen. Upon the prompter, _his_ face has finally appeared.

Harley Quinn glares at her lover's imposter, her nostrils flaring as her mind comes to a solid conclusion. No one made a mock out of her _puddin_ and got away with it alive.

Chopin's Nocturne begins once more.

* * *

><p><em>AN: In case someone didn't know, Carmen is a shade of red. RR:)_


	5. Chapter 5

A Mirror's Wake

(Chapter 5)

Author's Note: Once again, thank you so much for the kind reviews! I truly appreciate all your feedback and remember to feel free to review this chapter and make as many critical comments as you like!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain.

* * *

><p>"<em>Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company"<em>

_-Mark Twain_

Inside Arkham, darkness always lingers casually. Once inside this damnable building, one cannot easily detect the difference between the Day and Night. Neither Sun's beautiful, luminous hammock nor Moon's idyllic veil dare enter this hell like zone where corruption bleeds through the walls and hate fills the air and poisons the nostrils.

However, like Dante's vision of Hell, there is more than just one layer to Arkham.

At this precise instant, there is one unlucky individual that descends deeper into the mouth of Lucifer's domain. The continuous jingle of keys resonates loudly against the deadly silence that inhabits this specific area of the asylum. Though it cannot be heard, Frank's fluttering heart falls into a strange rhythm with the bell-like sound. It is not comforting.

In his burly hands, Frank clutches a dull, metallic tray; the contents within include only a plastic, disposable bowl filled with unappetizing gruel. The porridge like substance smells putrid and much to the orderly's disgust, there are small droplets of the thick liquid that have escaped the container and cascade carelessly around the tray, leaving a smelly, sticky trail that resembles the path of a goo inducing snail. This can be due to Frank's continuous quaking grasp.

Like the Pilgrim himself, Frank descends slowly down the cement stairs of Arkham, each step greatly booming. Regardless, his footsteps make no difference to the loud, overpowering silence. His large boot makes contact with the final step and Frank here decides to take a breath. Hoping that somewhere in the vast atmosphere, he can take a gulp of courage and strength.

He continues his journey.

In the past two years here, the orderly has never traveled beneath the cursed Asylum. Truth be told, Frank had never wanted to in the first place. But life is known for its unexpected surprises.

A slight squeaking penetrates the unbearable silence; a poor lost rat mingling in the realm of the damned outcasts. One might think it utterly distressing that even in the ominous, black pit that is Arkham, where out casted individuals are ripped away from society; there are still some people that do not manage fit in.

Frank ignores the small creature and continues his march of death.

The frightened orderly pays no heed to the millions of rusted bars that insult the ancient hallway. The wretched smell of dust burns through Frank's nostrils but he does not heed his timid stride.

There are no other twisted individuals within the cages of here below or so the demented souls lead us to believe. Perhaps they blend in perfectly with the onyx shadows, curiously staring with their accustomed, darkened eyes at the only source of light in the room. It is unknown.

Frank has reached the end of the hallway, in front of one specific cell. Frank knows for certain that within this cell, one woman lies on the cold cement floor. What Frank does not know is that in the past, another crazy also lied there. _Oh how she loved him. _

Keeping in mind the hazardous tray that he holds in his grasp, Frank pulls out a black cylindrical object out of his uniform's trousers. A perfectly, executed flick of the wrist and celestial light escapes the tube and blesses the contents within the cage.

There is a beautiful doll sprawled upon the floor. Ah, but upon closer inspection it comes to our attention that it is truly not a doll but the same woman that we have been tracking for two years. She makes no indication of movement, except the constant almost unnoticeable rise of her chest that tells us that she still dwells in the land of the living. The woman's straight jacket, a much thicker coat we notice, is constricted in such a way that it leaves us questioning if cyanosis is in action.

Though Frank wishes to keep the sheltered illumination on her frame, he knows that it is impossible to do so with all of the articles that he carries. With extreme caution, the terrorized employee places the humble beacon within his mouth. Frank is surprised and yet grateful when he manages to open the aperture of the Lion's den.

He is nervous and yet he is fully aware of what he must do. Frank sets down the tray of the disgusting substance down in order to be able to focus on the still woman. If there ever were a time when an individual could rewind time and redo every insipid action that he or she has ever committed, it would be now.

"Harley?" the poor fool murmurs against the silent whispers from the surrounding entities that bellow in the hellish depths of Arkham Asylum. Unfortunately for him, the frightening, almost nonexistent sounds of the poisonous atmosphere shall be the last sound that he ever hears.

The woman lets out a heart wrenching moan and begins convulsing. Her continuous, exaggerated twitches destroy Frank's rationality and the employee begins to unhook the afflicted woman from her tight constraint clothing.

Bad move.

* * *

><p>"<em>The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain"<br>-Karl Marx_

Pain.

Pain is the uncomfortable sensation that we feel within our corporal form when our bodies are placed in an exceedingly harmful and stressing situation. Though tears may stain our eyes due to merciless pain and prayers are created in order to cease the abomination that comes with pain, we must thank pain; for it is with this suffering that we are able to acknowledge that we are truly alive. Pain indicates that our heart still gallantly beats and that our breaths still heave with remorse. Without pain, we would resemble the rotting corpses that fancy withering worms slithering upon their decomposed cheeks; feasting on their deteriorating carcass.

Pain is what clouds Frank's mind.

As he is bent over her, he does not notice the liberated, spidery white hand that is currently crawling rapidly towards the rustic tray of putrid contents. Neither does he take into account the sudden drop of temperature within the cell, a foreshadowing of the impending doom of his fate.

There shall be no final super with his Mary tonight.

Frank is astounded as he feels a cool metal kiss his cheek harshly. The kiss, full of passion and fervor, manages to twist the thick neck of the orderly in such a fashion, that it can be argued on whether the delicious snap of his vertebrae was truly heard or was a mere figment of our imagination.

She arises.

Harley bristles slightly as she notices a speck of rotting oatmeal on her worn slipper. Without hesitation, the silent woman discards the offending garments on her feet. The harlequin quickly snatches the identification of the deceased wretch and quickly makes her way to the exit. The jester girl's naked feet slaps against the gravel floors. The feel of the harsh friction against her darkening soles gives her a further incentive to keep running. Running from the pain.

It takes a mere seven minutes for her to exit the cursed building but whether or not our dear, sweet Harley is truly free cannot be answered.

Let us follow her. We know that the fates have now begun the turning of their complex wheel and we must not disappoint them by not scoping this wonderful spectacle. As we increase the elevation of the ground, upon the stairs of salvation that grant us exit from down below, we hear a quiet sigh.

Whether it will be remembered, we do not know.


End file.
